


you heard i was a nice boy, well, you didn't hear it from me

by jflawless



Category: GOT7
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Social Anxiety, its me, mostly fluff tbh theres not, so who knows what will happen, there shouldnt be anyways, theres not gonna be a lot of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:44:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3301280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jflawless/pseuds/jflawless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark likes routines. Routines are easy, and familiar, and safe. Jackson Wang is not routine and he is not familiar and he’s kind of the best thing to ever happen to Mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted at jacksnwangs.tumblr.com

1.

Mark had been glancing around nervously, palms getting sweaty as soon as he walked in and couldn’t see Nina dancing across the floor from table to table in the section he’s been sitting in since the first night he discovered the badly lit restaurant with the door half hidden in the dark alley that lined its left side, overshadowed by the big, brightly advertised and too loud bar that sat on its right. He chanced going in because he was hungry, and it was on his way home, and though its exterior was a little disheartening, the food was amazing and there was always something fun and upbeat playing from the old school jukebox in the back corner and Nina was about as understanding as anyone else was, and she was there night after night, giving Mark the chance to become familiar with her. Once he did, they were something akin to friends, so he only had more reason to keep coming in five days a week.

Except now, he can’t find Nina. He catches sight of someone walking towards his table and he snaps his gaze to the napkin holder almost but not quite in the exact middle of his table, and the short but deep ridge in the table top that it normally covers. They stop at the side of his table, the newcomer, and even from the corner of his eye he can see that it is  _definitely_  not Nina. There’s a black button down half covered by a folded apron and pulled tight across a flat abdomen where Nina had baggy green t-shirts hanging loosely around her thin waist, sometimes half tucked into the skirts she said she preferred to wear over the usual dark colored jeans most of the servers wear. There’s a rough dress code, Mark figures, just from watching different servers work throughout his years of eating at the diner, a high turnover of college students who wander in from the nearby campus, but nothing specific or harshly enforced. He’s watched, probably, two hundred different kids working the same shift, when there are never more than six servers at a time during dinner, watching the four sections of booths and long bar that separates the dining hall from the kitchen. At least as many different hostesses have greeted Mark at the door, but none of them have ever stayed long enough for Mark to say anything back. Nina is the only one he’s ever interacted with directly.

Mark clenches his clammy hands, and then uncurls them to wipe his wet palms across his jeans and then folds them carefully in his lap, fingers twitching, itching for  _anything_  to do while he struggles to try and ask where Nina is, and if she can serve him instead. He swallows thickly around the words, a vague voice in the back of his mind that almost sounds exactly like his therapist scolding him, saying it would be rude, and that he needs to adjust to meeting new people. It tells him that he might hurt the new server’s feelings, but Mark can’t really find it in him to care, because even if manages to ask the question, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to tack on a “no offense to you, we’re friends, she’s been serving me for six years”. The words are still stuck in his throat, even as he imagines himself saying them, even though he can picture his mouth moving to make the right sounds, can hear them being spoken in his own voice, but when he does open his mouth, all the comes out is a soft, shaky rush of air. He feels his throat constrict painfully around the sentence he cannot speak and there is a familiar tightness in his chest, one that he experiences regularly, but hasn’t felt sitting at this table in over five years. His stomach drops and he’s not sure he even has an appetite anymore, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s not going to be able to order anything to sate it if he does.

Mark hears a smooth voice ask him what he would like to drink over the dull ringing in his ears. It’s gentle, far gentler than Nina had ever sounded speaking to him, even on their first meeting when Mark couldn’t look her in the eye and had to choke out his request for water so quietly she made him repeat it three times before she understood. He managed then, his first time in the diner, to get his order across to her with just as much panic rolling through him as there was now, but this was different. Then, it had been brand new, and Mark had come in knowing full well it would be uncomfortable and difficult but he had done it anyways. Since that first night, he’d gotten comfortable, and there was a stable routine. He sat at the same table and ate, more or less, the same thing and after a year and a half of stilted, nervous almost-conversation, he could ask Nina about her day and make the occasional joke that had her far more interested than she had ever been when he was a stuttering, sweaty guy who couldn’t turn his head in her direction without feeling like he was going to puke. It had been the start of a friendship, albeit one that only  _really_  existed Monday through Thursday and almost every Saturday from seven at night until roughly eight fifteen, depending on how long it took Mark’s order to arrive, in periodic two minute interactions.

But,  _now_ , Mark was thrown for a loop. What had been  _familiar_  and  _safe_  was now unusual and frightening. Mark suddenly can’t remember how to say the word water or what it even means and he knows it’s what he wants but he doesn’t know how to get the sounds to come out and his heart is beating so fast it’s making him a little dizzy and it’s too late to leave, he can’t just push past the new server without a word and run into the street, even though it probably doesn’t feel like the walls are closing in and the temperature is rising to three hundred degrees out on the sidewalk. Mark pushes his palms hard against his knee caps and feels his shoulders tensing up, his back hunching slightly as his body tries to fold into itself but he’s stuck seated in the booth. He’s as frustrated with himself as he is with the situation, trying to remember back to the last time he’s had a panic attack in public but being unable to think of the date, it being so long ago. He doesn’t know how to get his breathing back under control without visibly hyperventilating and  _where the fuck is Nina_  and he’s already dooming himself to forty minutes of panicking while the new server decides he’s fucking crazy, and maybe he is a little, but before he can get too caught up in himself or his panic, a white pad of receipt paper and a blue pen slide into his view, covering the little hole in the table that’s been there since before he started sitting at it.

That same soft, kind voice tells him that if he writes it down, it’ll be right out, and a rush of relief so intense floods Mark’s entire body and he’s not sure he’s ever been so grateful towards another person in his life. He’s embarrassed when he picks up the pen, the object in his hand only serving to make it more obvious how much he’s trembling, and the straight lines of his W are more like waves, but he gets the chance to take a few deep breathes as he takes his time writing out the word and, comforted by the fact that he won’t have to even think about speaking to his new server for at least the next three to five minutes, and by the time he makes it to the R his lines are a little straighter and his heart is slowing down a little and it doesn’t feel quite so much like the entire world is going to end if he can’t say this one word.

Jackson takes the small pad of paper back and smiles even though his customer won’t look at him, and he doesn’t mind, really, he’s just glad he seems to be calming down. There’s two other tables he needs to stop by to greet and he can see from where he’s standing that one of his orders is up, but he still goes to get the water first, because it looks like this guy probably needs it more than his other customers need to be tended to.

He’s stopped by Alex in the back, the guy who’s meant to be training him since he’s the current longest working employee, having been there for five years total, the past two consecutive, even though he mostly just told Jackson to wear black pants and a shirt and it’s just like serving anywhere else, take the order, bring the order, smile, act polite, you’ll do fine, probably, and if you don’t, they’ll just hire another kid off campus and you could try the coffee shop two blocks down the road. He didn’t assume the guy was a regular, actually thought it was probably the first time he’d ever stepped into the diner, but Alex corrects his assumption with a soft click of his tongue and a sympathetic look.

“Sorry you got stuck with Nina’s section,” Alex offers him a rough slap on the shoulder, “that guy’s been coming in here since even before I started working, I guess. She served him every night.”

Jackson perks up, a little, at the news. It’d be fine to have him write down his order, too, but Jackson saw the way his hands shook and how carefully he made each letter to be perfectly legible and the way his eyes kept darting from the paper to Jackson’s waist like maybe Jackson might get mad if he didn’t hurry up or get annoyed with him for not speaking up, and thinks it might be better to cut the interaction down as much as possible.

“Do you know if he had a usual order?” Jackson asks, and Alex looks a little confused but relays the water that Jackson is supposed to be getting and informs him that it’s, most nights, a hamburger with no onions and a side of macaroni and cheese instead of the usual fries. Jackson takes a chance and calls in the order while he’s pouring the glass of water.

Alex catches him again, on his way back out into the dining room, “Seriously, if you need someone to take over, someone more experienced, I can have someone help with your section. Nina was the only one who served him for, like, years. She said he was real fuckin’ weird. We never really figured out what was wrong with him.”

Jackson carefully shifts himself so Alex’s hand isn’t holding his elbow anymore while still not spilling the glass of water he poured a little too high, and says softly, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with him.”

Mark is sitting quietly, still staring at the table, the worst of the panic subsided by the minor attack leaving him exhausted and his chest feeling wrong, when a tall glass, filled to the brim with water appears in his view along with the pad of paper.

"My name is Jackson," Mark’s new server finally introduces himself, "I’m Nina’s replacement. I’m sorry she won’t be back, but if you keep coming at this time, I’ll be here from now on. Someone in the back recognized you as a regular, so I asked if you had a usual, and I called in an order for a hamburger with no onions and a side of mac and cheese, but if you want something else tonight, you can write it down and I’ll cancel the first order."

Mark isn’t that surprised that Nina quit. She’d been working there since she started college and he knew that she never intended to stay forever. He knew that she was finishing up her Master’s degree in May and he hadn’t asked, but the way she spoke, he knew that she would be moving back to her home state. He thought they might be close enough, by then, that she might actually say something to him before she did it, but Mark has never been that good at having friends, and he guesses he doesn’t really know how to tell when he has one. He’s not that surprised that someone else there knew him, and his usual order, considering he’s been getting more or less the same exact thing five nights a week almost every week for six years, but he is surprised that Jackson asked about it.

Mark gives a jerky nod that Jackson takes, correctly, as “my usual is fine”, even though he asked an either-or question. Jackson slides his pad and pen back into the pocket of his apron and gives Mark a bright, wide smile that Mark can just barely see when he chances a glance sideways at his server. He’s known Jackson for probably twelve minutes total, and he’s done nothing but embarrass himself the entire time, but he still thinks that the smile looks a lot nicer and far more genuine than the usual, awkward, I-can’t-believe-I-have-to-put-up-with-this-weird-bullshit-but-I’m-getting-paid-to-be-polite-to-you kind of smiles he usually gets from customer service employees.

When Jackson brings his food, he speaks softly, Mark too distracted by his own thoughts to catch exactly what he says, before carefully placing the plate in front of Mark. While he refills Mark’s water, he tell him that he likes his shirt, and Mark knows that, normally, you’re supposed to say “thank you” when you receive a compliment, but he’s wanted to thank Jackson for a lot more than that since the moment he first slipped his receipt pad onto the table and he hasn’t been able to yet. Jackson doesn’t really seem to mind, that he doesn’t, or even expect it. He just flashes Mark another big grin and turns to tend to another table.

Mark still doesn’t get to say thank you, not when Jackson clears his plate and offers his pad for a dessert order than Mark doesn’t make, not when he refills Mark’s water three times while Mark loiters around trying to build up the courage to thank the first person who hasn’t treated him like a child or like there was something  _wrong_  with him, just like he was any average customer, who didn’t give him strange looks or laugh when he didn’t think Mark was looking or whisper insults in the ears of his coworkers. At least, for the last couple, Mark was pretty sure he didn’t. Jackson didn’t seem like that type.

Mark doesn’t know how to get the words out to say he’s grateful and that it’s the first time he’s felt okay his first time in a new situation, even if it started out a little rough, or how to thank Jackson for the little note on the bottom of his receipt that claims Jackson hopes to see him again soon, or how to say that he will, every night for, probably, the rest of his time working there because Mark values routines so much and Jackson made his transition into a new one so smooth without even being asked, so instead he just leaves a twenty dollar tip that he’s pretty sure Jackson wasn’t expecting, or trying for, and stays up late, staring at his ceiling, picturing Jackson’s face and whispering the world “Hello” over and over again until he thinks he might be able to say it at dinner the next night.


	2. Chapter 2

11.

On the eleventh night that Jackson is Mark's new server, he follows the routine they quickly settled into. He brings Mark a glass of water, hits Mark with his bright, excited smile, and tells Mark that he's happy to see him again and that he hopes Mark had a good day. Mark nods awkwardly in attempt to return the sentiment, just like he does every night. Jackson has said the same thing for the past nine dinners, and Mark hopes that someday soon he'll start to believe it. He thinks Jackson is just being polite but the words still make a pleasant rush of something like affection thrum through his chest.

"Do you want your usual?" Jackson asks. A little too frantically, Mark shakes his head 'no', and holds up his hand to stop Jackson when he starts to put his order pad and pen on the table.

Mark _practiced._ For hours, he watched himself in the mirror, watching his mouth move as he said, 'Hello', 'How are you?', 'I'd like fries instead of mac and cheese', and, in case he was doing _really_ well, 'see you soon, Jackson'. He'd already missed out on the first two, palms sweating despite the chill running down his spine as soon as he thought about actually saying the words to Jackson when he entered the restaurant, but Mark's determined to speak to Jackson at least once.

Mark squeezes his hands into fists, squinting as the table as he focuses on keeping his breathing even, remembering the words he's said hundreds of times before. It's hard to look at Jackson, even though he's heard over and over again that eye contact is key in successful social interaction, but he figures he can work up to it. He has to start _somewhere_ and he desperately wants to get the words out. Frustration flares up inside Mark as he _feels_ the words get caught on their way out, tying around his tongue, deterring him from making the sounds.

It almost feels like he might cry, letting out an angry little huff and he tries to force out the one simple fucking sentence he wanted to say.

Eventually he gets out a 'fr' sound, the beginning of 'fries', but everything inside him feels like it's _closing_ and the world feels like it will end if Mark asks for fries and he unclenches his hands long enough to grab roughly at his knees, his breaths coming out a little more erratically. Jackson only lets him panic for about six seconds, sliding the memo pad into view just like he did the first night.

Mark is grateful, but he feels as if he had to _earn_ the fries, so he scribbles down that he's sorry, he does just want his usual. As he hands it back, he glances up enough to see Jackson giving him a kind, encouraging smile and it makes Mark feel guilty. He wants to talk to Jackson, for Jackson, and he doesn't totally understand why.

Just as the feeling of failure is sinking deep into the pit of Mark's stomach and threatening to ruin his entire week, Jackson says, "I'm really proud of you for trying, it's take a lot of courage," and Mark thinks that, if karma exists, he must have done something really fucking fantastic for Jackson to appear in his life.

Suddenly, Mark doesn't feel so much like he let the entire world down, or even that he let Jackson down, and a little surge of pride burns through his frustration. It's been a long time since Mark had resigned himself to a life of anxiety, accepting that he would live in quiet fear, and it's the first time since high school that he's really even _wanted_ to talk to someone, let alone spent so long _trying._

When Jackson brings Mark a shockingly large chocolate chip cookie, after he finishes eating, that doesn't show up on Mark's bill, he _does_ manage to reply to the treat with a quiet, shaky, "Thank you."

He's not even sure if Jackson heard him and he got to embarrassed when he tried to say it while looking at Jackson's smiling face and had to look away and his hands don't stop trembling until he's back at home and the two words leave him feeling nervous for a full hour after about how his voice sounded, but Mark is still undeniably _proud._

36.

It's been two months and Mark walks into the diner with determination. He's a man on a mission. Sliding into his booth, he stares out towards the middle of the diner, where he can see Jackson juggling two trays a plates towards a party of college students, some of who Mark actually recognizes from his graduating class. Luckily, none of them notice him, but it's still enough to drop his miniscule amount of self confidence he built up on his way from the library back down to its usual level of _none._

Mark keeps watching Jackson and once the students have all gotten their correct dishes, he glances up towards Mark's booth and the polite smile he had turned towards his customers explodes into something radiant, and the sight of it shoots adrenaline through Mark's veins.

Jackson slides up to the side of the table with a bright greeting and, for the first time, Mark looks _right_ at him (at his smile, not his eyes, because Mark isn't quite ready for eye contact) and says, loud enough that it's definitely audible, "Hello."

Even though it seems impossible, Jackson's smile gets even _bigger_ when Mark greets him, and it elicits a giddy little laugh that Mark would never expect someone to respond to _him_ with.

"You doing well tonight?" Jackson replies and it startles Mark for a moment, because he was _ready_ for the hello, but he'd forgotten to prepare for an entire conversation, and at first he's not sure if Jackson is complimenting him on saying one work or asking him a question. Mark has to look away, again, but he eventually, softer, forces out a response.

"Pretty good," Mark chokes a little on the last word, pushing out the sounds through the panic threatening to constrict his breathing. He can feel a familiar, frantic feeling building right in the center of his chest, the start of an attack, but he glances sideways at Jackson's ecstatic expression and remembers through the nerves to tack on a quiet, nervous, "You?"

Jackson tells Mark he's doing _amazing,_ and he doesn't say 'now', but Mark thinks with the way that Jackson looks at him and the way he says his night is going well implies it. Mark's so happy with their almost conversation, he doesn't even care (well, he doesn't care as much as he normally would) that everyone can see how badly his hands are shaking when he picks up his glass of water and a little spills out over the rim of the cup.

59.

Normally, Jackson is at the edge of Mark's table within a minute of him sitting down, ready with a smile that Mark never sees him shine at other customers, and a long rambling story that he knows Mark probably won't respond to beyond a small smile he turns at his lap.

Tonight, Jackson is wandering from table to table, slowly making his way towards Mark. Mark can see his shoulders are a little hunched, and his smile is barely there. His posture changes a little, when he stops at a table; Jackson stands up straighter and his lips curve weakly into a forced, polite smile required of all servers. Once he leaves, though, he deflates again, and, apparently, when he makes it to Mark, he doesn't bother with pleasantries.

"Your usual?" Jackson asks tiredly, and even if Mark hadn't wanted it, he would've ordered it anyways, just to save Jackson the trouble. He gets a little grin when he says, out loud, a confident, 'yes', but Jackson slumps away to get his water and put the order in without any greeting or conversation, his sunny disposition missing.

Usually Jackson will turn back to Mark, occasionally, throughout his meal, to see if he's okay or if he needs something, since he knows Mark won't call out. Most of the time, Jackson will pull funny faces at him, even though Mark always look back down at his thighs before smiling. This time, Jackson's the one who keeps his gaze on the ground the entire evening.

As soon as Jackson drops off Mark's glass, and mumbles his nightly, "Nice to see you," fear rolls through Mark in waves. He's _sure_ that Jackson is tired of his weird bullshit and tired of accommodating him, which Mark is used to. Most people expect it to be a temporary thing - everyone always has, including Mark - and they don't understand the extent of his anxiety. Everyone, one way or another, gets tired of putting up with it and slowly cares less and less about Mark and, in turn, his comfort level.

Mark notices though, glancing nervously towards Jackson every few seconds until he gets to a point of blatantly staring, it's not just him. Jackson looks exhausted, and, honestly, a little _sad,_ and Mark desperately wants to do something about it. When Jackson brings his plate of food, Mark tries to say _anything,_ just something to cheer him up or find out if he's okay, and he, momentarily, has the wild idea that just saying something may improve his server's mood.

It's too sudden. Mark chokes on his words, like always, and Jackson gets away before Mark can even try to speak. Frustration bubbles up but Mark uses it as motivation instead of letting it get him down. He promises himself he'll do it, even if he has to stay until closing.

Mark doesn't have to stay quite _that_ late, but he does stick around for later than usual. Jackson's startled when he turns around, half an hour after he cleared Mark's plate and dropped the check off, to see his favorite customer still waiting in his booth, staring intently his hands which are tapping nervously on the table top. 

When Jackson comes over, Mark doesn't know how long he's been waiting around; building up his courage, but it's the perfect amount of time.

Jackson asks if Mark's okay, and before he can continue on to point out Mark could've left a while earlier, Mark looks up (at Jackson's nose; he's still working up to eye contact) and replies, "Are _you_ okay?"

Looking confused, Jackson glances down at himself, wondering if he's gotten a cut or bruise somewhere to trigger Mark's worry, "Of course?"

"Okay," Mark accepts, pulling his hands back down into his lap and clasping them together to stop their trembling, but it only serves to make both his arms start to shake. He wishes the diner was air conditioned, so he could pass it off as shivering. Swallowing forcefully around the lump in his throat, Mark turns his head towards his shoulder to wipe the sweat on his forehead off across his shirt sleeve, and through his rising panic, breathes out, "you just seem sad today."

Watching Jackson through his peripherals, Mark sees his face shift through a series of expression before landing on what Mark would describe as _touched._

"Just a bad day," Jackson murmurs, and, _finally,_ Mark gets one of those real, happy grins, and knowing, without a doubt, that he's the cause of it gives him such a rush of pride that it overwhelms the building dread, "It's better now, though."

Jackson thinks the smile he gets in return is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, and he hopes to every god he's ever heard of that it's not the last time he sees it.

78.

Jackson has his first week day off. They accidentally over scheduled and have too much staff, even for the biggest dinner rush, and, for whatever reason, Jackson was the one to get cut even though it was his usual day.

He's ecstatic, having built his schedule around his work day, leaving him six full hours of complete free time, most of which, he spends lying on the floor in his boxers with trashy music blasting from his laptop, just because he can.

It's nearing six thirty when it hits Jackson that, even though it's _his_ night off, Mark hasn't missed a Thursday since Jackson started working, and apparently, in the years before he got the job. Jackson spends a long time debating - too long - about what he should do. He's worried it might mess up Mark's night, and progress, if Jackson is unexpectedly missing. Since their meeting, Jackson has managed to find out that Mark was exclusively served by Nina and, no one really knew what to do with him the few nights she was sick and he wouldn't talk or look at anyone else. He knows that Nina left suddenly, a partial factor in Mark's behavior their first night. Jackson hates to make assumptions, and thinks it's probably self centered to think his absence would ruin Mark's night, but, he'd rather be safe than sorry.

Which is how Jackson ends up, on his night off, sliding into a booth at seven oh two in front of a beautiful boy with red cheeks and shaking hands, breathing in little, nervous gasps. Mark doesn't even notice Jackson until he sets his elbows on the table, cups his jaw with his hands and leans forward to murmur, "Mind if I eat with you?"

Mark startles and looks up at Jackson with wide eyes, but Jackson can see his shoulders droop in relief when he finds Jackson and his familiar, gentle smile across from him. He opens his mouth to speak but something stops him and he nods almost imperceptibly.

Alex comes to the table a couple minutes after Mark gathers up the energy to tell Jackson he looks nice out of his uniform, right as Jackson is apologizing for making Mark embarrassed when he teased back that he thought he looks pretty good _in_ the uniform too, to which Mark blushed and stuttered and scowled. Jackson thinks he hears Mark mutter something about Jackson being full of himself, but he's probably just hearing things.

"Jackson! What are you doing here?" Alex asks, dropping a glass of water next to Mark, a little too aggressively.

"Eating with a," Jackson cuts off just before he gets to the word 'friend'. He's not sure if he's allowed to classify them as friends. On his part, he knows he'd _like_ to be friends with Mark. Mark wears really cool t-shirts and even if he has trouble talking, he always looks like he has a lot he wants to say, and Jackson wants to stick around long enough to hear it all, and when Mark _does_ talk, he's always nice, and once he even made a quiet, mumbling joke about an angry customer that had Jackson hiding in the kitchen for three minutes to snicker freely. Jackson's always, _always_ impressed by the work Mark clearly has to put into talking to him, and it makes him feel _special_ that Mark tries so hard for him. But, he doesn't know if Mark _likes_ himbeyond their casual server-customer relationship. He thinks about it, about Mark watching him work his section and struggling to keep conversations going and Mark slowly getting more comfortable with him and Mark's worry for him when he seemed upset and how Mark will sometimes leave nice or funny messages on his receipts when he's too wound up to try and say them out loud and he glances up at Mark, for confirmation, or something, and sees Mark staring curiously back, like he's waiting for Jackson to define what their relationship has developed into.

When Jackson finishes the sentence off with 'friend', and Mark hits him with that wide smile that makes his entire face light up into the prettiest thing Jackson has ever seen that he's only had the pleasure of seeing twice before, Jackson knows he made the right choice.

91.

Once Mark and Jackson are confirmed as _friends,_ Mark gets more comfortable around his server nightly.

Mark rarely starts off their conversations, but he's gotten good at responding without long pauses and he doesn't have to practice things he wants to say for nearly as long. A few times, he's even managed to make jokes on the spot, and even though his voice shakes, Jackson _always_ laughs and it only makes Mark feel more secure in their friendship.

Tonight, Mark asks Jackson how he’s doing as soon as Jackson appears at his side, and the proud smile that Jackson offers makes Mark’s heart beat faster – not out of fear, but something else, something that doesn’t make his hands clammy or his mind blank. He answers back to Jackson’s quick recap of his day that he had a nice afternoon, and tells Jackson that he works at the county library. His therapist suggested he start trying to give information about himself without being forced to share.

He gets a little nervous when Jackson excitedly asks about what he does at the library, but a few deep breaths allow Mark to explain that he mostly shelves or checks in books.

After a few minutes, Mark feels bad for monopolizing Jackson’s time and he can see the manager shooting them irritated looks from behind the counter, so he orders himself a root beer float as a reward for having the entire conversation without his voice wavering, even though his hands are twitching nervously under the table.

It’s definitely not the first time that Mark has ever (really) wanted to talk to someone but, watching Jackson beam with pride under his faint blush as he promises to be right back with the drink, Mark thinks it’s the first time he’s ever had someone really want _him_ to talk to _them_.

As Mark says goodnight, once he’s finished his meal and the free dessert Jackson refused to let him leave without accepting, he looks Jackson directly in the eyes and smiles.

Maybe he nearly throws up from nerves as soon as he all but sprints out the door, but, it’s _progress._

128.

“I didn’t know if it would be weird or out of line,” Jackson explains between sips of water as he sits across from Mark in his usual booth for the second time, “I just didn’t want to leave you stranded, or anything.”

This time, Jackson remembered to warn Mark that he wouldn’t be at work for his usual Thursday shift. Despite the fact that they had confirmed their friendship, Jackson was still surprised when Mark, instead of decided to come and have a different server or to skip the diner altogether, quietly asked if Jackson wanted to eat with him, again.

Mark was surprised at how readily Jackson agreed to meet him.

“No,” Mark denies, “it was perfect, thank you.”

Jackson watches Mark’s mouth fall into a frown, his brows furrowing to match, and when he glances away from Mark’s face, he can see the lean muscles under his shirt sleeves tensing in a way that makes Jackson think he’s probably making tight fist in his lap. Mark is staring at his shoulder, but Jackson doesn’t mind much. It gives him the chance to stare at Mark’s mouth, the way the corners of his lips twitch when he talks, holding in smiles Jackson desperately wants to see, the way he purses them into a thin line whenever Jackson’s telling a really funny story because he’s too nervous about how his laugh will sound to let anyone – even Jackson – hear.

“I’m more comfortable, when you’re here,” Mark finally admits, so softly Jackson barely catches the words, and nothing anyone’s ever said to Jackson has ever made him happier than Mark’s quiet confession.

And it’s not just talk. There’s such a _difference_ from the first night and now, months later, it’s almost unbelievable.  Mark has to stop, sometimes, to catch his breath and, as he tells Jackson, fight through the little bursts of panic that he still can’t _totally_ avoid when their together. Between them, Mark tells him about the library, and how he found the diner, and how it was right after his therapy appointment and she’d been urging him to try new things and it’d been an _awful_ experience but Mark kept coming anyways.

Jackson doesn’t say it, but he’s thinking it’s ridiculously courageous for Mark to try new things, and he’s so fucking glad that the diner was the new venture Mark decided to brave.

176.

Jackson interrupts Mark’s strict routine for the fourth time and, surprisingly, Mark finds he doesn’t care at all.

His new friend rolls up to the library desk where he’s sorting through books and praying no patrons come for help before one of the librarians returns with a big brown paper bag, stained with grease, and a smile like the sun.

“What are you doing here?” Mark says – too loudly – earning an obnoxious ‘shush’ from a passing patron even though he works there and, technically, can make as much noise as he likes.

“Friends can’t visit friends at work? You do it to me _all_ the time,” Jackson half-jokes, and shakes the bag towards Mark when he laughs a little, “seriously, though, when is your break? I couldn’t choose if I should bring you fries or mac and cheese, so, I just made cheesy potatoes. The best of both worlds,” Jackson explains.

Mark silently thanks the universe when his boss shuffles out from the back room and relieves him for a lunch break just two minutes after Jackson arrives. She smiles softly after the boys, and doesn’t even try to reprimand either of them for their volume level or bringing food where it’s not allowed.

They eat out on the steps outside of the library, sitting shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee. Mark’s hyper aware of every inch of their bodies that are touching, and, in most circumstances, the proximity would make him wildly uncomfortable, but, for some reason, he just kind of wants to sink in closer to Jackson and maybe never move. It’s a foreign feeling, but, Mark doesn’t hate it. Plus, he can obsess about it much later, when Jackson isn’t rambling on about some wild customers he had to deal with during the breakfast rush.

People are passing them near constantly as they share the bowl of potatoes. Any other day, Mark would be struggling through crashing waves of panic, avoiding every single person climbing the steps next to him, hurrying to get wherever he was going, worrying if people were looking at him or if he was going to have to interact with one, crossing the street to avoid other pedestrians, but, Jackson has so much of his attention, Mark barely realizes anyone else is there.

245.

Mark doesn’t use his phone much. He’ll text, mostly, but even when his parents call, Mark has trouble answering when he’s in public.

There’s too much rattling around his mind when he does for him to keep up with the conversation. Who can hear him? What if they get annoyed with him? What if he says something dumb? What if they don’t see his phone and think he’s talking to them? What if they think he’s talking to _himself_? A hundreds of other ‘what ifs’ float around and Mark _knows._ Mark knows that it’s all irrational, that no one gives a _shit_ if he has a five minute phone conversation on his phone while he walks to work, knows that _most_ of what he spends most of his life worrying about isn’t _really_ rational. He knows it, but it doesn’t stop from fear seizing his entire body and making him feel like he’ll vomit the second he opens his mouth to speak, it doesn’t stop him from getting dizzy every time his finger hovers over the little green button that will put him on the line while he’s walking down a public sidewalk.

And then, Jackson Wang calls at 8:47 on a Tuesday morning. Mark doesn’t talk to people at 8:47 on Tuesday morning. He walks to work. He walks in silence and he looks at his feet so he doesn’t accidentally make eye contact with passing strangers and he swallows around the panic that rises like bile in his throat anytime he foresees potential social interaction that he desperately wishes he could face without feeling like he’s dying.

Jackson Wang calls at 8:47 on a Tuesday morning and Mark wants to answer. It’s not routine, and there’s a business man eight steps behind him, probably in hearing range, but Mark’s thumb hovers over the little green phone icon and he wants to swipe left.

So, he does. He does, and Jackson is rambling in his ear within seconds, and he’s asking _questions_. Mark’s voice comes out softer and shakier than it has been in months, but Jackson just prompts him more and more and after two more blocks, he gains a little confidence, and by the time Mark is walking up the stairs towards the library entrance, he’s all but forgotten he was ever afraid of answering.

277.

Mark slips into his booth, bouncing from all the excited adrenaline pumping through his veins. Jackson doesn’t even say hi to him before the words are spilling out, something Mark’s _never_ experienced today.

“Jackson! Jackson! I helped a patron today! By myself!” Mark, almost immediately, regrets his greeting. He knows that Jackson knows, to whatever extent, that there’s something _wrong_ with Mark. A few recent conversations have, though Jackson had probably already realized, that Mark’s anxiety is _fairly_ debilitating, and something he’s been struggling with since the beginning of high school. Jackson _knows_ , and Mark knows he knows, but, Mark is still embarrassed being so excited over something that is an average occurrence for most people, especially someone like Jackson, who serves hundreds of people daily with a smile on his face.

Even though Mark knows Jackson better, he still thinks Jackson might tease him, or something, or at the very least, realize Mark is probably not the kind of person Jackson really wants to be friends with.

He may _know_ that he’s messed up, but, he usually doesn’t advertise it so brightly.

“Oh, yeah?” Jackson’s expression _explodes_ into pride, “That’s amazing! Let me go get your order, okay, and then I’ll take my break, and you can tell me all about it?”

Jackson is so genuine it almost makes Mark want to cry, and he doesn’t know why he was even worried, because Jackson Wang is the kindest boy in the entire fucking universe and Mark is pretty sure he doesn’t deserve a second of his time, but Jackson gives him so much more than that.

It’s not a very good story, Mark knows, he just helped two young woman find some picture books for their toddlers, but, Jackson sits across from Mark and listens with such rapt attention, Mark kind of feels like the most interesting guy in the world and he loves it, and, maybe, loves Jackson a little too.

300.

Mark doesn’t know what it is about senior citizens and volume control, but none of them seem to have any.

She’s in Jackson’s section, eight feet away from him, and she doesn’t even try to whisper when she starts asking Jackson about Mark.

“That boy over there,” Mark is one of six people in the entire diner, “the one in the striped shirt?” He’s the only one that fits the bill.

“Yeah?” Jackson asks, confused, not quite as loud as his customer but not quietly enough to avoid Mark hearing. Mark keeps his eyes down on the table, wishing he hadn’t decided to come in for Jackson’s breakfast shift.

“I see him here a lot,” she comments, and Jackson laughs.

“He’s a regular too,” Jackson explains, adding, “and, one of my friends. That’s why he’s always here when I am.”

“What is it that’s wrong with him?”

Something catches in Mark’s throat and it takes all he has to not start coughing. Panic hits him like a freight train, only, this time, it’s not anxiety, just fear of what Jackson might respond.

Mark’s been thinking for a while, a long while, that he might be in love with Jackson, or something, but, when Jackson, not aware that Mark is straining to hear his half of the conversation, sternly tells the woman, “there’s nothing _wrong_ with him,” Mark’s pretty damn sure of it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You never know until you try.

340.

It took a long conversation with his therapist. One that continued over thirteen different sessions. Or, if you really think about it, every day he’s stepped into her office since he walked into high school when he was fourteen only to immediately leave because he could feel every system in his body slowly shut down and he had to sprint outside to throw up.  

She always ends each meeting with some variation of the same short speech. It goes, “Mark, you know you’ve made incredible progress, right?” (Mark mumbles that he knows, even though it usually feels like he hasn’t.) “I’m proud of you, do you know that?” (Mark nods. He knows, conceptually, that she is proud. She tells him frequently, that she is proud of him. Outside of the basic  _idea_  of pride, he doesn’t know. What has he done to be proud of? Sometimes, when things aren’t going the way Mark wants, he bitterly wonders what she’s done to earn the right to take pride in him. It will take him a long time to understand that isn’t really what she means.) “Are you proud of yourself?” (Mark nods again. This is more a lie. She waits until he is truthful. Or, at the very least, he says ‘yes’, in a louder, clearer voice so it’s easier to pretend he’s being honest.) “Always remember, Mark, that you never know until you try.” (The first few times, her parting words were extended into an entire monologue: “Right now, things are scary, and I understand. I know that you panic, and it’s easier to turn away, but, you never know until you try. Something great can happen. Maybe, once you get over that hump, over the panic, you’ll realize it wasn’t so scary and it’ll just get easier from there. Maybe you’ll think you had nothing to be afraid of in the first place. That’s how we make progress, right? We keep pushing until it’s easier. A runner doesn’t just stop when they get tired. They don’t just say, 'Guess I can only run a mile, so I’ll only run a mile from now on’. They run faster and longer and harder until two miles is easy, then three. People aren’t born running marathons, Mark. They train until they can. And you were not born chatting to people on the bus or raising your hand in class, but, you can get there. I’m not asking you to not panic, I’m not asking you to not to be scared. I wouldn’t expect you to do anything in a day. I’m just reminding you. You never know until you try. Maybe it’s worth the effort.” Eventually, they both got tired and Mark would nod his head along in perfect sync, mentally repeating every word as he’d heard them before, so she summarized. You never know until you try.)

The mantra, her catch phrase, “You never know until you try” became her favorite opposition thirteen sessions ago.  

Mark said, “I think I’m in love with my best friend. Jackson.” He always referred to him, unneccesarily, as 'my best friend Jackson’. She knew who Jackson was, by then, and there was no doubt that he was Mark’s best friend. Mark just liked to say it.  

She replied, “Are you going to tell _him_ that?”  

Mark, of course, explained that, no, he will not. First of all, that is terrifying. He could be in love with every other person on the planet and he would not tell a single soul. No matter the odds that they may love him too. Second of all, Jackson is his best friend, and Mark is not going to chance ruining that on a confession he is too scared to make. Third, Mark is not boyfriend material. Mark isn’t even sure what boyfriend material is, but he's pretty sure Jackson fits the bill and he, without a doubt, does  _not_.  

And then, his therapist discovered her new tactic.

“He’s interested in me like that.”  

“You never know until you try.”  

“I wouldn’t even know what to do, on a date!”  

“You never know until you try.”  

“I don’t even know if I could touch him, or, let him touch me.”

“You never know until you try.”  

The only time he managed to illicit an original response was when he quietly wondered if he was too high maintenance to be loved, and she promised that anxiety did not make him high maintenance, it was just something he had to work through. It was not something that made his sullied or unlovable, it was just another feature of him that someone, namely Jackson, would love along with the rest.  

So, here he is. Thirteen sessions later. Three hundred forty days later. Countless “You never know until you try"s later. Hours of thinking and wondering if he’s comfortable with a relationship at all, if Jackson might like him the same way, if it’s worth it to confess his new feelings to someone other than his therapist and the crack on his ceiling.  

He and Jackson have ventured away from the diner. They take occasional excursions away, like, sometimes to Mark’s house (his parents  _adore_  Jackson), sometimes to the dog park (neither of them have dogs but Jackson likes to coo at other people’s puppies while Mark questions if they’re really allowed without a pet). Jackson has invited Mark to his apartment a few times but Mark has yet to agree, awkwardly changing the subject or suggesting they eat at the diner.

Instead, today, they’re side by side on a bench half a block away from the library, on a quiet street, empty aside from the two of them and the rare passing car. Mark made (bought) lunch for them to share before his shift.  

He’s waiting. It’s his day to confess. The moment was decided a week ago (it was supposed to be a week ago but he got too nervous and shut down, so he allowed himself just seven more days to get the words out) and he’s wasting time (not really  _wasting_ , he’s still having fun telling Jackson about the weird collections of books he swears these teenagers check out to mess with his head) until it’s closer to his shift before he says what he came to say (so he can make a quick getaway with the perfect excuse of work to leave).

They’ve finished eating their food and it’s fourteen minutes until two when Jackson gestures vaguely with his phone, the screen showing the time, suggesting he walk Mark to the library.  

"Wait,” Mark mumbles, and Jackson stops balling up their trash to look straight at him. Both Mark’s favorite and least favorite thing about Jackson is his attentiveness. Anytime you speak, he  _listens_. He watches you, pauses everything he is doing so he never misses a word. Jackson makes you feel like every sentence you say is the most important he’s ever heard. There’s this look he gets, when he’s  _really_  focused, and Mark can see it now. It makes him feel shy.  

“I just… have to ask you… something… a question,” Mark stumbles through the words and Jackson is patient, listening. He doesn’t push. It more rare, after almost a year of friendship and progress, that Mark struggles to speak.  

Mark, for all the work he’s done on perfecting his eye contact, cannot look away from the trampled grass at his feet. The muscles in his neck are tensed, locked, and he doesn’t think he could move his head even if he wanted to. Words sit, stuck in his throat. Maybe stuck, maybe just waiting. Waiting for his mind to settle, for him to stop wondering “is this worth it?”.  

His therapist’s voice floats through his mind, so confident, “You never know until you try.”  

It loosens the question and Mark asks, “Would you… want to… go on a date? Sometime? If you want?”  

He doesn’t notice the redundancy because his heart is pounding in his ears, and for a second, he’s not even sure if he was speaking a real language. Maybe he didn’t even say anything, he thinks.  

There are four beats of silence and then the gentle brush of fingertips across his wrist bone startle him into looking at Jackson’s face, who’s expression is comparable only to sunshine.

Jackson lets his fingers linger against Mark’s skin. He smiles, wide and bright and excited, joy undeniable, and asks, “How many dates before I can ask you to be my boyfriend?”  


End file.
